


A Posteriori

by Olivia_Avery



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olivia_Avery/pseuds/Olivia_Avery
Summary: Five years after the June Rebellion, Grantaire is pardoned and released from prison. With only memories and vague leads, he sets out to find Enjolras.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> adjective
> 
> 1.relating to or denoting reasoning or knowledge which proceeds from observations or experiences to the deduction of probable causes.
> 
> adverb
> 
> 1.in a way based on reasoning from known facts or past events rather than by making assumptions or predictions.

 

_1832_

In a different world, it had been that spark of recognition that had let them live; that curl of Enjolras' hair against the tip of his left cheek that ignited the memory of wild summers in Toulouse. Brisk and black-footed, but children in this memory; the dirt of the garden beneath their bare toes; they raced so fast that their mothers had chastised them both for uprooting the carrots by their heel strikes.

Enjolras' mother had slapped him there in the garden. The smack of her hand against his cheek had resounded for only a half second, but for the lieutenant — only seven, then — that first sight of violent punishment had shaken him, imprinting a memory that had not lessened in time. The whiplash of Enjolras’ face, jerking to the right at the hit; his hair — light and wispy — had settled elsewhere from the strike, coming loose of its pomade and settling against his left cheek. It framed his eyes. And they, like now, had remained dignified and pointed.

In the hellmouth of the barricade, the lieutenant recognized him. It caused the words to stick in his throat, clumping together like coagulated blood.

His men awaited the command. Their guns and line of vision had been settled upon the radicals for a breath too long. Their arms felt heavy and sore from hours of recoil. More seconds passed.

Until finally: "Guns down. Apprehend them."

 

He caught Enjolras' line of vision, where there lingered no ease of eyes or thankful sigh from his lips.

It would take time before the lieutenant realized the suffering in the expression.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> Charles Jeanne, a historical figure of the June Rebellion (and whom some argue Enjolras is based upon), was arrested and tried shortly after June 5th. He and a few others from the event were charged with insurrection. Some were sentenced to execution. However, five years later, they were released via a Royal Amnesty. I have used this as a base for E and R's story.  
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Personal Notes  
> ********************************************************************************************************  
> It's been a little bit of time since I've written, hasn't it? :) For any new readers, I have a previous work, "Deprivation, Retribution, Beloved," which explores my own take of E and R's relationship. Although I have written "A Posteriori" with my previous fic in mind, you need not read it to follow and understand this story. It may just be a little extra treat, and may come up as a few little easter eggs thrown in here and there.
> 
> Comments, Questions, Thoughts, Comments, Kudos, etc. etc. always always always appreciated and loved.


	2. One

_1837_

It was cold. Cold, cold, cold, and Grantaire shivered near his furnace, folded around his knees, squatting shoeless, sockless, and poor. And it was a haggard thing, this little furnace — all stuffed up with soot and smoke, older than Grantaire himself, he was sure. The apartment no better. A shared space christened with peeling wallpaper that splintered the mottled wood as it shed. The floors scuffed and littered. The furniture half broken. Chairs missing their legs. A bed that creaked with every small movement. In the far right corner of the room: straw, meant best for an animal but slept in by a man: Grantaire's bed, for the time being.

It had been two weeks since he was pardoned and released. Before that, he had been transferred thrice — from his prison quarters in Paris, to a prison in the north, and back to Paris again. In the end, there had been a trial — he hadn't physically been present (his name on a list of insurgents had been enough) and a ruling. Maybe the king sought loyalty by offering the wood of an olive branch, as opposed to the cedar of the guillotine. But as it so happened, Grantaire had undergone five years of incarceration and then, almost randomly, freedom. They gave him papers and a small stipend. They gave him back his old clothes (harsh and pungent smelling; soot and opium. When he pulled them on, they fit loosely).

They gave him no answers when he asked of the others.

The front door opened, bringing in billows of wind and snow. Grantaire cursed. His teeth chattered. “Don’t linger in the doorway, or I’ll be well damned!”

Monsieur T, from the door frame, glanced over the heavy mass of his scarf. He was a small fellow; angular and knob-kneed. He spent no money on shaving tools, so his beard was long and yellowed. Jaundice was apparent in his eyes. Despite the half-year of being cellmates, Grantaire knew little about him. He had been married to a prostitute, whom had remained in this apartment before leaving upon his release. He was somewhere in his 50’s. No children. Arrested for setting the home of an official ablaze (“I was sick of being poor,” he said). His last name was Polish, perhaps, or something of its kin; unpronounceable with each oncoming consonant, but his French was fluent. He let Grantaire stay for the very small cost of very particular artistry.

“You done yet?”

“No. Shut the door, Monsieur, please. My hands shake too much to draw.”

“Lemme see what you’ve got so far.”

“So be it, but shut the door!”

It was a crude drawing of a woman splayed, her breasts teardrop shaped and crooked. Her expression still unfinished. Monsieur T angled the paper in his hands, watching the figure move as he spun it clockwise.

“It’s good,” he said. “But, don’t like her face.”

“She has only a nose so far. I’m not surprised.”

“When will you be finished, and leaving?”

“Here,” and Grantaire took the paper. He leaned it against the floor and penciled in, quickly, two eyes and a mouth. He sketched in the curl of pubic hair. Added shading only where needed. He held out the portrait for Monsieur T’s ready hands.

“Good enough,” he said.

Monsieur T spun it again, brought it close to his yellowed eyes and grunted. “Good enough. You going?”

“If you’ll lend me your boots. I’ve worn out the soles in mine. My socks are also undone, if you wouldn’t mind sparing those as well.”

“Tch. Needy,” but he slid off his boots and pulled off his socks. Eager to push his roommate through the door, he gave him the red scarf as well. “Just take them. I have an extra pair. How long will you be gone?”

“Long. Hours, if needed. An entire day, most likely.”

“You still sitting outside the prison?”

“No.” Grantaire licked his chapped lips. Let his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. “I don’t think the friend I’m looking for is there. I’ve wasted time, maybe, just sitting there at the entrance. I can’t even get someone to confirm if he was still there after the pardon.”

 _Or_ , Grantaire dared not add, _if he lived long enough to be pardoned._

“Huh,” said Monsieur T. “Well, good luck then.” He waved his hand, a clear gesture: _get out_.

Grantaire was afraid. Such was the terrible truth of it all; the feeling slogged like mud in his stomach. Pinched at the edges of his face; similar to the rolling of nausea at sea.

He went to the Musain.

——

 

His stomach only lurched twice — the second time was a gag close enough to retching on the Musain’s bottom floor, where he had seen Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Bahorel, Combeferre, Joly lined up like used children’s toys; blood had soaked his boots like rainwater. Enjolras, he remembered, had paused at the sight, his feet grounded where he had wished his own body could be laid. The soldier holding the cloth around his wrists (torn from a red flag; the soldiers had brought no rope, as they had assumed to take no prisoners) had shoved him forward, colliding him against Grantaire’s back.

In the police wagon, Enjolras had leaned forward in his seat, flattening his stomach against his legs, and rested his forehead against his kneecaps. His body shook. And Grantaire had wished, so desperately, to reach out and thread his hands through that curled, golden hair.

“ _I wanted to die with them_ ,” Enjolras had whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some liberty has been taken on the cannon -- fingers crossed you all won't mind it. I usually base most of my Les Mis fiction on Hugo's book.... but, at least when it comes to the barricade location and Madame Houcheloup's ownership of a cafe, I've chosen to instead follow the musical and 2013's cannon. Whereas the book has the barricade erected next to the Corinth, for simplicity's sake, we're going with the Musain in this story.
> 
> Comments greatly appreciated, and give inspiration for the next chapter! <3


	3. Two

_1837_

Despite the damage from five years ago, the Musain had changed in only a few ways. The tables and chairs were new, but were composed of the same dark wood as before; windows had been repaired; walls cleaned, floorboards fixed. The staircase replaced. The setup was similar, a reproduction, almost, of a time before June 5th.

But there were bullet holes, still. There was a noticeable quiet. Despite the handful of patrons inside the cafe for their tea and breakfast, it was lonely. Among the small crowd, there was no familiar face. The top floor (his hands shook as he climbed the staircase) as empty as his own grave.

He stood facing the large window — that daunting, bright thing. It glowed in the white light of the early Spring morning.

His back had been to it, once, beside Enjolras — his shoulder blades pressed almost against the glass.

Was he still alive, Grantaire wondered. The palm of his right hand felt cold; the space behind his eyes were stinging and warm. He’d pray if he had faith in God.

There were heavy footsteps against the staircase. Alongside them ascended the low voice of a woman. “Top’s closed,” it called. Another step on a squealing stair. “You’ll need to come down—”

Madame Houcheloup had not changed. She was round, pock-marked, eternally tired looking, still. Her brown whisps of hair still coming undone from her bonnet. That shocked expression no stranger to Grantaire. She steadied her weight against the stair railing. She pressed a hand against her breast. “Heaven above,” she said with a gasp. “You’re that drunk one, aren’t you? One of those boys.”

 

It was a lovely soup. Gibelote cooked it, Madame Houcheloup had said. She had gotten married, had a little girl, and took on more chores in hope for better pay.

“She’s good enough,” said Madame Houcheloup, waving a hand above Grantaire’s bowl. She watched him dunk a thick piece of bread into the broth. “But you look half like a corpse. Probably why you think it’s tasty.”

“The wine was fine in prison, at least.”

“But the food not, I’m sure. I never thought I’d see you looking thin.”

“I got along fine in it,” said Grantaire. He took a soggy bite. Spoke with food in his mouth: “Political prisoners got better quarters. Makes no sense to me.”

“Huh. And now you’re out.”

“Now I’m out.”

Their voices rebounded too easily in the empty, upper room. Madame Houcheloup had set up a table for the two of them and, despite the early afternoon hour, had set out two bottles of wine for her guest.

“You ruined my cafe, you know,” she said.

Grantaire’s appetite was quickly fading. He nodded.

“You and those other boys—”

“Have you seen Enjolras?”

It was unstoppable, the question. Permanently a fixture on his tongue since the hour they had been processed and separated. There was hope in her silence, he figured, watching her think. How could Enjolras not return here? How could he not want to start all over again?

“That was the quiet one?” Madame Houcheloup ventured.

“Blonde hair, tall—” He was wringing his hands together.

“Curly hair?”

“Usually set to the side with pomade, yes. He was with Courfeyrac and Combeffere, usually, at that table in the corner there—”

“And those two were?”

Grantaire swallowed. “Did you see the bodies?”

She nodded. Owner of the cafe, she had been asked to identify a few of them. She herself had been questioned about her role in the ordeal.

And Grantaire could picture it again — the five of them, shoulder to shoulder. “The first two bodies in the line up…”

“Ah,” she said. “Ah, yes. I won’t be forgetting that image soon. That Enjolras wasn’t in the body count, was he?”

“No. We were arrested together. So you haven’t seen him?”

Madame Houcheloup shook her head. “Only Marius Pontemercy.”

“Marius?” His voice caught in his throat.

Madame Houcheloup nodded. “He’s a good boy, that one. He comes around often. Paid for our repairs, even. He’s got a sweet, little wife as well.”

“Where is he?”

“What’s that?”

“Marius.”

“How would I know?”

“He’s got an address, shouldn’t he? No man living on the streets could afford to fix a barricade’s damage. Was he not caught?” Grantaire inwardly cursed at himself — had Marius even been at the barricade that day?

“Ah, be calm,” said Madame Houcheloup. She waved Grantaire down, easing him back into his seat. “He’s a creature of habit, that one. Just wait until Thursday. He’s here every evening then.”

 

Grantaire did not wait until Thursday. He returned the next day. And the following. The next after that. He remained there from morning until late at night.

“I told you Marius comes on Thursday,” commented Madame Houcheloup.

“It’s not only Marius I’m waiting for.”

“Suit yourself. I’m no longer feeding you for free.”

There was, in all honesty, no need for Madame Houcheloup to give him any kindness. He had been a difficult patronage, and a more-so destructive insurgent. But it was pity, maybe, that forced her to hand him a dish rag and the dirty cups and dishes. She gave him a small amount of sous for the work, and they were enough for bread and wine.

But there was no Enjolras.

His temper had returned by Thursday evening. He was half-drunk and antsy, pacing the floor from one end of the cafe to another.

“Don’t wear down the floorboards!” called Gibelote.

“Madame, let me walk!”

“Monsieur Grantaire,” bit Madame Houcheloup from behind the counter, “Sit down!”

“Should I sit, my legs would run off without me. I would be no different than a man cut and quartered. Now do tell, Madames, what would you—”

And then a hush. Grantaire’s stomach had dropped to his knees. His own soul, it felt, was threatening to crawl out from his open mouth.

From the doorway of the Musain entered Marius Pontmercy.

——————————

 

_1827_

Grantaire took to Courfeyrac immediately. 

There was a grand Joie De Vivre to the man; his smile always reached the crinkled near his eyes. When he would lean over to speak to a woman, even a simple word like " _Cherie_ ," had all of Courfeyrac's genuine, little heart beating through each syllable. He drank ferociously; clinking his glass against Grantaire's at the end of each witty remark. By the night's end, his face was glowing a bright blush of red, as often afflicts those whom laugh until tears.  

He was by no means drunk (wonderfully woozy, yes, but he could still adjust his hat with a fine flourish), and nor was Grantaire. The few sous in Grantaire's pocket had been disappearing steadily. His lack of drink in the last few days had given him more headache than a hangover had ever caused.  

"And where do you live, my newest friend?" asked Courfeyrac. He brought an arm around Grantaire's shoulders. It was late in the night, yet it was August, when the heat of the day had barely diminished. Such weather kept the Parisiennes busy — they bobbed in and out of the tavern, paced the street with great strides; young couples kissed in thin alleyways.

"A good question," said Grantaire, glancing up and down the boulevard. "I will tell you: bad fortune has dispelled me from an inheritance, and I am no clever gambler. No, do not give me such a pitiful face. Fight your tears! Due to such, a home eludes me, so indeed, I live amongst my mistresses — from the edge of the 9th arrondissement to the 2nd. And yet," he clicked his tongue, "I have run out of mistresses. Many tire of me quickly."  

Courfeyrac's nature was similar to all whom encompassed the ideology of the Romantics. Just as he felt empathy toward all lost and troubled persons, his kind and lovely nature quickly clamored toward Grantaire. When his idea came to him, he spared no moment of doubt.  

"You mentioned you are a student." 

"Indeed." 

"Studying art?" 

"I try. I fail." 

"Do you try and fail at the Sorbonne?" 

"At a studio nearby there, yes."

"How lucky you are! How kind fate is to introduce us tonight." Courfeyrac flashed a smile. He strode forward, pulling Grantaire alongside. "I live just near such places, and as such, now, so do you. Fraternity is a fine miracle, my friend. There is no better gift than brotherhood. To meet a fine man of the arts such as yourself... and to bond as well as Saint John and Christ, well, what a rarity!" (Grantaire could not imagine this a rarity for someone as good-natured as Courfeyrac). "To be good to one another is the greatest of gifts, especially for the one whom gives. Now, let me tell you what my little apartment can give: good wine, decent company, and a cover from the rain. Is it better than the thighs of a woman? No, never! But it is a place I have made cozy, if you so wish to stay."

And Grantaire did, settling upon a spot on the floor with great relief. When the next few days, turning quickly into a week, had still not given him a speck of money or the sympathies of a kind-hearted woman, Courfeyrac pulled the extra mattress from his bed and set it upon the floor.

"I should have thought of this sooner," he said, with a happy hum.   

When two weeks had passed, and still his new guest seemed no closer to departure, Courfeyrac found it best to begin introducing him to friends.  

"You will like him," he said to L'agile. "Did I tell you how we met? He had begun an argument with some fellow, and when that poor fool's tongue had grown tired, he yelled across the tavern, some rant against... for the life of me, I cannot remember, and I'm sure he would neither have the memory. But I got up, and invited him to my table, and I found him so fantastic and clever. And! Every bit self-deprecating. I can trust a man whom finds humor in himself."  

Courfeyrac's small apartment was a busy place for Grantaire. Every few days, a new face would round the corner. Bahorel. Prouvaire. Bossuet.  "I like your friends," said Grantaire one evening, uncorking a bottle of Courfeyrac's wine. 

"They are your friends too, now," Courfeyrac replied.    

 

On most nights, Grantaire was left to his own trouble-making, which often included either lethargy or long stretches of time causing trouble down the streets. He managed to compose some sloppy, muddled portraits which gave him a small stipend from time he time. When he would visit opium dens, he would find a brisk inspiration to write another letter to his father. And then one to his mother ("Mother, I know father will be cross at my last letter. But, I implore you to convince him that any attempt I make to pursue law or accounting would be a travesty... Sincerely, your son, without a sous in worth—").

In the first few weeks of shared living, he had done well in remaining composed and well-mannered. Yet, by the closing of the month, both had become accustomed to Grantaire's lunacies. Courfeyrac came to view the raving as the "innate, unhinged, and common despair of human nature," and Grantaire found, at last, a small tally of people whom still spoke to him kindly when he awoke hungover the next day. 

"On the contrary," said Courfeyrac once when Grantaire had whined his mouth dry, "I don't think you're dispassionate. You care a great deal about politics, my friend. And, the state of things." 

Grantaire waved his hand at the thought, "It's all hopeless. I tire to even talk of it any longer."  

"Why so? There could be some gain in it."  

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. The bed beneath him felt too comfortable for any sort of further talk. Perched on his own bed, Courfeyrac eyed him from across the room.

"This coalition of yours,” Grantaire began, “That you and Bahorel and Jehan attend almost nightly, I'm sure you feel some sort of purpose from it, dear Courfeyrac, but I am no such dreamer. You have invited me there before, as I am sure you are about to do now, but I'll grow sick from the sugar of idealism."   

  

There was one friend that remained elusive. Grantaire met his name before the face. All of them had mentioned him — Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bahorel, Prouvaire, Feuilly — with the same warm and familiar cadence. And then, there always followed: a mention of either politics or passions — as if a name itself could inspire an entire topic of conversation.  

Finally, out of some drunken, silly paranoia (was it really possible to forget meeting a man whom seemed so pivotal in this small group of people?),  Grantaire blurted out into the night —long after the candles in their lamps had been extinguished — begging to know exactly when and where he had met this forgotten face.  

"Oh," said Courfeyrac, sitting up from his bed, "I hadn't even realized… you have yet to meet Enjolras."  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading thus far. Comments are so greatly appreciated, and give me the passion to keep going. :) See you in the next chapter!


	4. Three

_1837_

“Are you happy?”

“Hm?”

“Are you doing well? Since…”

It had eased into the late evening. Marius, seated beside Grantaire on the outer steps on the Musain, bounced his knee. _Tak tak tak_ : the heel of his shoe against the street. Behind them, through the latched windows, the spark of conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed. And that musky stink of the streets, that heady taste of wine against the roof of his mouth… If Grantaire had dared closed his eyes, he could get swept back into it. Pretend, perhaps, that nothing had changed.

He rested his chin in his hand. Shivered slightly in the cold. “No,” he said simply, his eyes trained far across the street, to a glowing lantern all orange and warm. “It’s been only some weeks, and I’m struggling.”

Marius visibly flinched. “My apologies,” he said, “For asking.”

“Am I being too blunt?”

“No, no,” and Marius waved his hands. “Not at all. I asked in earnest.”

Grantaire nodded. Words felt thick on his tongue. He was too drunk, maybe. Or, all the energy and anxiety that kept his limbs moving had crashed and fizzled.

Marius cleared his throat. “Thank you for sitting out here with me. Seeing you… I needed some air.” He gave a weak chuckle; so thin-sounding, it should have died in his throat. “I felt a bit faint.”

“As I feel whenever I see a mirror lately.”

Marius gave a forced laugh and tapped his fingers against his knee — a nervous habit. Both of his legs were bouncing against the street now.

Grantaire wished Marius could have been Courfeyrac. Or Joly. Or anyone in their little coalition that Grantaire had adored. It was only Marius that he had little history with. The boy had existed, mostly, in Courfeyrac’s stories, or in the few times Marius had gained enough courage to drag his drooping shoulders into the Musain. He was teasable, awkward, and aloof; not terrible traits on their own, but that was where Grantaire’s knowledge of him ended.

“There aren’t many of us left,” said Grantaire. A fist could have been gripping his heart. “Have you heard anything of Enjolras?”

Marius cleared his throat, again. “I haven’t. I’m sorry. And everyone else, Grantaire—”

“I know. I know. Now, It’s only us three.” Grantaire blinked. “Or us two. I’m not sure. I hope not. I’m… ah.” He sighed and buried his eyes against the heel of his palms. Another sigh. “I’ll wait here forever if I have to. I just don’t know if this is where I’ll find answers.”

Legs no longer bouncing, Marius dragged the tip of his shoe along the concrete. “Where, um… Where do you live now, Grantaire?”

“A ratty place quite a distance from here. At the Gorbeau House, or something or other.”

Marius’ eyebrows rose. “Gorbeau House,” he said, almost in a laugh. “I see. Do you like it?”

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow. “Not at all.”

It was obvious when Marius was thinking. He took a long breath and nodded along to his own thoughts. “Alright,” he said at last, standing. “It’s a bit cold now. I remember Gorbeau House being even colder. I have a spare room, if you prefer?”

 

As they walked toward home, Grantaire only noticed, twice, Marius bringing a kerchief to his face to dab against his eyes.

 

_1832_

He was horrendously difficult when sick. The sort that Combeferre called “the worst kind of patient.”

“So you’ve regulated him to bed?” asked Grantaire. He took a sip of his coffee — a luxury allowed only when he had less than three hours of sleep. Or a few loose sous burning his pocket.

“Yes,” said Combeferre. The sigh he gave dissipated as white vapor in the morning air. “If he’ll stay there. You know Enjolras.”

“Indeed,” said Grantaire with a snort. “Who told him Saint-Just never rested? He takes ‘progress must be kept ongoing’ too close to heart.”

“I’m to visit him later,” said Combeferre. From his jacket he pulled out a thin book, a short history on Greek politics. “I promised him I’d deliver this. It’s good to keep an eye on him, too.”

“I can go in your stead.”

Combeferre gave a smile. Of course Grantaire's eagerness was expected. “Would you? Gives me time to visit my mistress.”

“Without hesitation.”

Grantaire was light-footed and cheery. Elated by caffeine and prospects. He knew, by heart, the streets to Enjolras’ apartment, just as he knew well all streets of Paris. But, Enjolras’ address in particular he cherished. In the late night, especially, lately.

The door was unlocked, most likely to allow the in and out of Combeferre and Joly. Grantaire cracked it open and stuck his head through the opening.

“I heard you’re dying. I’ve come to pay my respects.”

Enjolras — as expected — was up, filing through a stack of old school exams. Dressed in only his white undershirt, long enough to touch just above his knees. He blinked at Grantaire and grimaced.

“I am,” he said. 

Grantaire let himself in. Closed the door behind him. “Not of cholera, I hope.”

“Joly has already diagnosed me as so.”

“I’ll take Combeferre’s diagnosis, instead.”

“It’s some sort of fever that’s common in the spring,” said Enjolras. He climbed into his bed and pulled the covers over him. “That’s all.”

“I see.” Grantaire coughed. The air felt stuffy in the small room. “And should I report to Combeferre that you’ve been in bed this whole time?”

With all the little energy in him, Enjolras rolled his eyes.

Grantaire sat on the side of the bed. “You smell,” he said, leaning closer. “Like sweat.”

Enjolras _tch’d_ through his teeth. And, indeed, there was a shine on his forehead and chest. His cheeks were ruddy. His eyes a bit bloodshot. “I’m sure I do.”

“Your apartment has a wooden tub to loan, doesn’t it? Lucky man, living in a place so fine. I can bathe you.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows narrowed. His mouth gaped at the question. “I’m fine,” he said. “Your being here doesn’t help me.”

Grantaire, as was his talent, ignored the jab. “What time does your apartment’s water arrive?”

Enjolras rubbed a hand across his face. “Noon.”

“And you’ll go fetch the water, heat the water, and fill the bathtub? Do you enjoy suffering?”

“Shut up, Grantaire.”

 

What an aching annoyance. Grantaire could have been convinced he himself was ill from how tired he was from hauling a large tub and several buckets of water into the apartment.

“Next time,” he said, dunking a white cloth in the wooden basin, “I’m taking you to a bathhouse. Or to one of the floating baths near Pont d'Austerlitz. Anyway, alright,” he stood and stretched his arms above his head. “Get in. It’s already half-cold.”

Enjolras, virtuous as he was in politics, lacked shame in many other regards. His cravat was all too often askew, his white undershirt often wrinkled; the buttons on his vest either misplaced or undone. He regarded nudity in the same regard, tossing off his long, white shirt with only a bored expression to commemorate it.

“Beautiful as always, Enjolras,” chided Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” began Enjolras, bracing the sides of the tub. “You give me a headache.”

“Hold on, let me help you in.” And Grantaire slung his arm around Enjolras, anchoring him tightly as he slid into the water.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Enjolras hissed, half submerged.

“Yes, apologies. I know it could be warmer. Aha, look at you! You look like Marat. Should I fetch you a pencil and paper? Be glad I’m no Charlotte Corday.”

“Christ.”

Grantaire scooted a chair near the bath and wet the bar of soap between his hands. “Lean your head back,” he said. “I’ll wash your hair and then read to you. Combeferre gave me that  politics book you wanted.”

Enjolras sighed; something of defeat, perhaps. And as promised, Grantaire wet Enjolras' hair and drew his fingers through the damp curls, washing out oils and dirt and whatever sort of filth that had accumulated over the past week. He moved his hands down Enjolras’ neck, then leaned him forward to work on his shoulders. Enjolras shivered from the cold water, but he had no complaint.

“Your hands are gentle,” he said, more fact than musing.

“You would know best.”

“Don’t bring that topic here. I feel ill enough.”

Grantaire laughed. And, “Ah,” he sighed, happily. “Alright, no more talk of rendezvous, then. Here, take the soap. I’ll let you wash the rest of yourself and I’ll read to you.”

Half a page in, Enjolras closed his eyes. And he said very suddenly, and very tiredly, “Thank you, Grantaire.”

 

_1837_

In prison, he had survived on rumors.

Grantaire had gained a talent in being oddly specific — common descriptions such as ‘blonde’ became: _“Dark blonde hair, parted, usually, at the left side of his face._ ” Mentions of scars or blemishes: “ _One scar just above his right elbow. There’s a dark freckle at the curve of his left jaw_.” He’s right-handed. Taller than Grantaire by half a head. Laugh lines from his nostrils to the sides of his lips (rarely used). An educated accent, but a bit obviously southern in some words. Stoic, usually — more so now than before, most likely.

“ _Yeah_ ,” had said one cellmate, fresh from another wing of the prison, “ _I know exactly who you’re talking about. He was in my block. I got imported out. You know consumption? Spread like wildfire there._ ”

 

Grantaire blinked at the steam rising, all hot and lazy from the bathwater. Curling into the white ceiling of the wetroom.

A wetroom. No, what was it called? A bathroom. With a porcelain tub. No need to splash water on yourself from a jug. No need to line some wooden planks with linen to spare your thighs from splinters. Porcelain kept the water warm, Marius had said. “It’s really nice, if you’d like to use it.”

Grantaire thought of Enjolras retching over the side of the wooden tub, Grantaire just beside him in time to throw a bowl beneath his mouth and pull his hair from his face.

“ _Very good_ ,” Grantaire had laughed. “ _Politics make me sick too._ ”

It was the late morning. Three days had passed in Marius’ presence; the boy owned no humble, little home, and was not married to some simple, little wife. Instead, the mansion (Grantaire thought it as so, at least) was remarkable: gleaming, patterned wallpaper; wooden floors covered by thick carpets; portraits and vases and dark wood furniture with golden paint along the drawers. Left behind for him when his grandfather passed, Marius had said. He had shied his face away with a blush. How embarrassing that Courfeyrac once called him “penniless.”

Cosette, at least, Marius had never lied about. She was by all measures god-awfully sweet and absurdly welcoming. She set aside spare sets of Marius’ clothes for daily wear — a thick coat, two jackets, a white undershirt, trousers, shoes (slightly too small, but, oh well), socks. 

There was a knock against the bathroom door. A gentle, little rapt that could only come from a woman’s thin knuckles.

“Monsieur Grantaire?” called Cosette from the other side of the door. “Would you like to take breakfast with me?”

 

Coffee. Bread. Cheese. Breakfast on a dining table. Rain against the windows, but the room was kept bright by candles in their lanterns. Grantaire picked at his bread; tried to appear as dignified as possible, even though he felt closer to a pauper.

From across the table, Cosette smiled. Her pink cheeks raising with the grin and her eyes crinkling. How genuine, thought Grantaire.

“Are you doing fine here, monsieur?” she asked, reaching for the butter. “It is nice to have you stay.”

“Yes,” said Grantaire. He cleared his throat. “Yes, very much. Thank you.”

Cosette nodded. She added butter, cheese, and jam to her bread. After a sugary bite, she reached for a sip of coffee. Grantaire watched her, slightly transfixed and every bit wretched in his thoughts.

“Marius,” she began, “Doesn’t talk much about what happened. So much happened. Not only to us, but to you as well, monsieur…”

“Indeed,” Grantaire relaxed his shoulders. “But not much happened to the history of France.”

“No,” she agreed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much of politics. But…” she paused. Her eyes darted slowly back and forth across the table, as if the words she searched for were there. “But, I know the king still rules and people still starve. In its most basic terms, I know that.”

 

After breakfast, he mailed a letter to his mother. The first since his pardon.

“ _There isn’t much to write,_ ” he penned. “ _Here is my new address, where I am a guest. Hope you are well. Hope father’s illness is easing. A kiss to Eterie. Your son —_ ”

By the afternoon, he was seated at the Musain. He wrote a letter addressed to the prison.

“ _Monsieurs, I ask with great urgency for the records of one whom may have expired within your complex between the dates of June, 1832 and March, 1837. The name of the man is…_ ”

Within two weeks, his prison letter had been returned: the request denied.

By three weeks, his mother had written back:

“ _Come home_ ,” it read in Italian, “ _Your father has died_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes  
> _________________________________________________________________________________________  
> Gorbeau House - Where Marius lived while as a neighbor to the Thenardiers. 
> 
> Jean-Paul Marat - An elect to the National Convention; a pivotal figure during the French Revolution. Often took medicinal baths due to a debilitating skin condition. 
> 
> Charlotte Corday - Murdered Marat while he was partaking in previously mentioned medicinal bath. 
> 
> _________________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> Thank you, as always, for sticking with me as I write! Receiving your views, kudos, and comments mean more to me than you could ever imagine. As always, especially, thank you for leaving your thoughts in the comments, as it gives me the inspiration to write!
> 
> See you next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness, it's been an age since an update. Happy late barricade day (let's pretend our boys survived)? I'm returning to writing to maintain a hobby, so I'll be hoping for monthly updates! Keep your fingers crossed <3

_1837_

Belvédère. Heat upon shoulders; red skin upon the neck. Winding mountain roads; dirt in the lungs. Nettles digging deep into clothing, into ankles…

Grantaire squinted into the sun. His heels were blistered from the loose fit of Marius' boots. His clothing was frayed. He had forgotten how annoying it was to breathe in higher altitude.

But he was there, in Belvédère, at the foot of the little town, panting. The winding roads thinly stretching past houses, past a stone church, through the town square where only one water fountain resided. Home -- but not truly. Paris was more of a home to Grantaire, but what Belvédère gave was a birthplace; albeit a mindless and isolated one. But as all men had: a birthplace, nonetheless.

It was late in the afternoon; the sun leaned deeper toward the mountain ranges. He could close his eyes and know the path to his mother's home. From the town square, to the rightmost alley (a wooden arch at its entrance, wood rotting from a century of existence), past the yellowed home of the widow, Madame Martin (she must be dead by now?). A set of stairs, made of stone, built into the face of the mountain. Five steps. The sixth one was half deteriorated. On this sixth step, when he had been ten, Grantaire's father had grabbed him by the hair and shook him over the remaining stairs.

" _Idiot_ ," the old man had snapped. Whatever Grantaire's transgression was then, he could not remember.

His family home was on the perimeter, made of stone and wood; nothing brilliant to the eyes, but it was one of the larger homes in the town. It had two chimneys. _Two chimneys_ ! His old teacher, a nun, had squwaked about it -- took the two chimneys as a true sign of prestige. " _How can a boy who comes from a house with two chimneys act as you do_?"

The home had a small front garden; iron gates just tall enough to be above the eyes. A single olive tree in the front yard. His mother had cut a branch from it the morning his sister had died.

In ten years, it felt, nothing had changed.

At least his father was dead.

 

 

_1832_

"Belvédère," said Enjolras. His tone just a whisper. It was nice, thought Grantaire, how lovely and deep his voice sounded when hushed.

“Belvédère,” confirmed Grantaire. “One little church, with one little parish priest. It’s a mountain village. It’s nothing special. You’re lucky if you get lost finding it.”

The carriage rocked in the night; Courfeyrac was at its reins in the summer chill. Pouvoir and Bossuet asleep against the cushioned seats, their faces pressed against the opposite wall of the carriage. Grantaire sat across from Enjolras. It was cloudless. Still bright, despite the hour. An indigo across their faces. If either had looked outside the window, a plethora of stars would have greeted them, shining like a million pinholes.

“But," continued Grantaire. It was hard to keep whispering. "You know small villages." And he had forgotten, almost, how calm and charming Enjolras could be. How soft his face looked when completely focused on another human being. Eyebrows a gentle arch. Lips slightly upturned as he listened.

Their knees bumped with every little jolt of the carriage. Something in Grantaire's stomach kept twisting and knotting, crawling up his throat in a warm trail and opening his mouth to spill words of anxious energy.

“They’re odd in their habits," he said slowly, "Being tucked away from the rest of the world creates that, I suppose. Perhaps our most annoying, little quirk? We have but one graveyard. Just one. It expands every winter. But my dear--" and it felt lovely to say that, that little coo of a _dear_ that he had never been brave enough to say, "--that is not the point. It’s this tradition that people do. Put simply: an olive branch, placed at the foot of every grave." Grantaire spread out his hands, begin careful not to strike their sleeping friends. "And you know of the heavenly book? That cursed thing? How olive branches signify peace within its pages? Perhaps the habit started there: an olive branch to represent peace with God, or death. Ridiculous. I’ll never find that peace. Never bury me in Belvédère. But, well, should that curse ever befall me, leave on my grave a cypress branch. Huh, lovely sounding, isn’t it? A good tree for mourning. I’ll make no peace with god.”

"Grantaire," said Enjolras.

"Mm?"

The carriage swayed again. Bossuet, to Grantaire's right, shifted in his seat. Jehan, beside Enjolras, let out a groan, and then went silent.

"Courfeyrac told me something odd today."

"Oh?" mused Grantaire with a lilt. He leaned forward at the waist to press a hand to the floor of the carriage. Without pause, Enjolras opened his legs wider, giving room to Grantaire between them.

"Have we truly drunk all the wine bottles?" Grantaire muttered from below. "Empty... Empty. These are all empty. Well then," and he pulled himself back up, "Alright, tell me."

"That you remind him of Paris."

Grantaire subdued a laugh. "How charming. Despite my being a dirty, southern, mountain rat? And what did you say? I can't wait for your wit."

"I said, 'Perhaps the more hellish parts.'" Grantaire could hear it, the warmth in Enjolras' voice; the almost chuckle that wine almost coaxed out of him.

Grantaire raised an empty wine bottle, one that he had been shaking toward his tongue in a desperate attempt for any drop. The lip of the bottle hit the roof of the carriage in his cheers. "But!" chided Grantaire, "Paris nonetheless. I am all of the drunken, sous-less scum, all reeking of opium and stale, vinegar-y wine. I am the artist whose work never gets hung in lavish maisons. The poet who cannot rhyme. The philosopher who believes in nothing -- ah! a philosophy in itself--"

"Whisper."

"-- _that is a philosophy in itself_. I am every ravenous beggar wanting royal blood, or every apathetic sack of skin on the streets. Yes, that one especially: the uncaring, un-celebrated, lackluster sides of Paris. But I am still a piece of your Paris nonetheless, Enjorlas. Do not forget that. I would drink to the thought, if I had wine, damn it all."

"And what am I, Grantaire?"

The question startled him. "You?" whispered Grantaire. He leaned forward. Studied Enjolras' face in the cool light. "There is no place in Paris,” he said, “Or France, or Europe that is worthy of your name. Your comparison, Enjolras, is better found amongst mythology. It does not exist, and I wonder how long in a world unlike you, can you exist as well?"

 

 

_1837_

Giulia, his mother, had calloused hands.

She a woman of the fields. A daughter of vineyard workers. She was a thick, short woman. Sturdy. Her face was wide, her eyebrows as thick as a forefinger. Her hair black as tar. She scowled easily -- a trait learned from her father, and made permanent by her husband.

She was in the back garden when Grantaire found her, her neck bowed to the sun. Her tanned fists around the necks of weeds, pulling the stalks and roots from the dry dirt.

“Mama,” said Grantaire. Her back was to him. She continued on working: another weed from the ground pulled. “Mama,” he said.

He walked to her and eased onto his knees. So close, he could hear her uneven breath: a deep, stuttering in and out through her nostrils. Close to crying.

“You stupid boy,” she said in Italian. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Emile, you stupid, stupid boy.”

“I know.”

“Did you want me to bury another child? Is that what you wanted, Emile?” She leaned over and pulled another weed.

Grantaire pressed his lips together. There was a weed alongside his left leg. He reached over and pulled it from the ground.

Giulia huffed and stood. She brushed the palm of her thick hands against her yellowed apron and motioned for Grantaire to stand. She blinked away tears and frowned. “An insurgent in prison! I can’t believe it. Be glad your father is dead, otherwise you would be right now.”

“Is he buried next to Camilla?” asked Grantaire, speaking his sister’s name.

“Your Italian has gotten worse. Do you hear your accent? Yes, he’s next to Camilla. Come here.”

She wrapped her arms around him, lacing her fingers together against his back. “Look at you,” she said against his chest. “You selfish, dumb boy. You look like a vagrant.”

“I know, mama,” whispered Grantaire. He rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I already cry over enough graves.”

“I know.”

“Good lord above,” she sighed, pulling away. She dabbed at her tears with her apron. “Let’s go inside. I’m sure Eterie has missed you.”

\--

“You remember uncle Emile, don’t you?” cooed Giulia, bouncing the child on her knees. “Don’t you Eterie?”

“Of course he does,” said Grantaire, scooping the boy up. “Under all this dirt, I’m still the same.”

For twelve years old, Eterie was very small. He was a thin, sickly boy, whom had never spoken a word. In Grantaire’s arms, he chewed on his thumb and watched his uncle’s face with curious, large eyes.

“Have you been well, Eterie?” Grantaire spun on his heels, eliciting a smile from his nephew. “I’m happy to see you. You look so big and strong. You’re almost too heavy to hold! Oof!” And he leaned at the waist to quickly dip the boy. Eterie laughed.

“He’s been losing weight,” said Giulia. “It’s the stress.”

“No, no. He’s as heavy as a stone!” And Grantaire dipped again.

“I’m taking him back to Sardinia.”

Grantaire paused. He looked to Giulia. “To Sardinia?”

“I’m going back to Sardinia. I’ve sold the house. Your father is buried. I have the money for the trip now, and I’m going home.”

“Who bought the house?”

“Some bastard and his wife from the north. What does it matter? My brother still lives where I was born. I’m so sick of these damned French people, Emile. I was waiting for you to come home so we could go.”

“You and Eterie?”

“And you, of course. What do you have here? You’re an ex-convict. You have nothing.”

Grantaire let Eterie down gently. “I’ve been pardoned.”

“What does it matter? Look at you: you still have nothing here. No job or prospects. We’ve been sending you money in jail when we live on scraps as well! Five years of allowances for you, when all you’ve done is get arrested. That’s probably what killed your father. Because of you, I couldn’t even give your father a proper headstone. Do you know what it says? _‘Grantaire_.’ Only that was etched, Emile. No birthdate, no first name. Nine letters. That’s all I could afford. Because of you.”

“I don’t pity him, I’m sorry.”

Giulia sighed. “Then pity your mother and nephew at least.” She placed her hand against his left cheek and gave three forceful pats. “You will come to Sardinia. Now, go get washed up.”

 

He took Eterie to the graveyard in the morning. There was fog in the little gully. The cyprus trees along the stone wall were growing back after the winter chill, slowly becoming green at different paces. He had seen his sister’s grave only once, many years ago, but the path was memorable. Eterie, hoisted on his back, pulled at Grantaire’s hair.

“Want to see mama?” asked Grantaire. “She’ll be so happy to see you, Eterie. Just like how happy I am to see you.”

Eterie made a little hum -- the best he could manage-- and kicked his legs.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen your mama,” Grantaire continued. “I’m sure _nonna_ has you see her often, but you’ll like Sardinia, Eterie. I went there when I was a little boy. I think I was your age. Everyone is so nice and the food is so good.”

Camilla’s grave had been cleaned recently -- out of guilt, perhaps, of migrating home, Giulia had come every week to remove weeds and place a fresh olive branch in front of her gravestone. Her father’s, beside her, just as clean and decorated. Grantaire set Eterie at the foot of her gravestone. He stared at his father’s grave.

It was plain, indeed. A last name only. Not that the man deserved much more. He was simple in life and did not care for frills or extravagance. Angry and impatient, he was kind in only his words of prayer.

Grantaire crouched beside his nephew, whom was pulling out grass near Camilla’s headstone. He ran a hand through the child’s dark curls and thought of how similar the hair had been to his sister’s. Camilla. He missed her. That wild, barefoot older sister of his. The girl who had found mythology books in their grandfather’s old trunk, and read them in character voices once their parents had fallen asleep. She had cried when Grantaire had been sent off to a larger town in his teenage years, to study at a school for business and maths. “You have an artist soul,” she said in her letters. “Paint me something, Emile, while you’re there. Send me more books too, if you can.”

And he did.

There were three empty graves near Camilla and his father. One for his mother, one for Grantaire himself, and one for Eterie. The ground was unbroken, the headstones unmarked. How odd, Grantaire mused, to see a family plot with only two members.

He blinked.

Christ, what an idiot he had been, to have been waiting in Paris for a body that was most likely buried in Toulouse.

By the week’s end, Grantaire had arranged a carriage for his mother. “In the next town over,” he said, his finger against a map, “There will be more carriages there. Nothing will take you directly to Sardinia, but from town to town, you’ll get there eventually.”

“It’s been eight years since I’ve seen you,” said Giulia. Eterie, in her lap, chewed a striped dish rag. “Eight years, and what will be next? Eight years more? I can’t believe you,” she whispered. “Staying in France.”

“There’s nothing in Sardinia for me, mama.”

“No? Not your mother or nephew? There could be a good girl there for you, or a respectable job. You still like art, Emile? Fine. Paint some vineyards there.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You know me better.”

Giulia’s shoulders dropped. She readjusted Eterie and sighed. “Then where are you going to? Paris again?”

Grantaire frowned. A sad, bitter warmth rose in his chest.

“Toulouse,” he said. “I’m going to Toulouse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nonna - Italian for grandmother 
> 
> \------
> 
> Apologies. I know this chapter is more-so character development, set-up, and background. We'll be getting into the good stuff next chapter.


End file.
